Cold
by SimplySerene22
Summary: Your name is Sasuke Uchiha and you have a job. The job is simple. However, there are no reasons for this job. Not to you. (AU - Rated for language)


Cold

Your name is Sasuke Uchiha and you're on your way back from work. The night is old – quiet. There could be a chill in the air, or you're just not too sure about the silence. Streetlights line the way, casting their sterilized glow around only themselves. Nobody goes down this road too often; not at night. You have no idea what it's like during the day. That's not what you do.

No, work means having to get up at shitty hours of the day, any day, and pulling on a suit. Not just any suit, no, you have to look the part. While some choose gaudy colors or flash large, expensive watches, you go for the simple. Clean. Dark colors allow you to blend in. It's something you know you should want. Work involves girls who fix up their hair, pull down their slinky tops. It means having to peer into the darkness and pretend to see nothing.

You manage to make it back to your apartment, sliding all seven bolts in place after you close the door, and securing the three chains. Some days you put a chair under the doorknob for good measure. Today is not one of those days.

The suit has begun to feel comfortable, and you pull it off without much thought. The clothes go into the hamper. The shoes by the door. The gun goes on the nightstand.

The bathroom is colder than on the street and everything is white. You stare unseeing into the mirror as you brush the taste of cigarettes out of your mouth. Spit, rinse – you wipe at your face with a white towel and go back to the bedroom. Sleep comes easily. Dreams do not.

* * *

Breakfast usually equals coffee-to-go. The smell heightens your senses, making you remember who you are. Stainless steel appliances decorate your kitchen, each as new as when you moved in. Your phone lights up on the counter. It's time for work.

Your phone gives you an address, your mind doesn't give you a reason.

When you walk out the door, dressed in a replica from the day before, you return a nod – a greeting – from one of your neighbors. They think you are a businessman. It's not a lie. You drink from your coffee. It really isn't a lie.

The train ride isn't long and nobody gets in your way. Why would they? You are just another man on his way to work. You keep to yourself and others do the same.

The cement stairs are crumbling and the railing has rusted into an entirely different color. The apartment complex is a web of cracks and half-ass patchwork. Typical. The door you knock on is supposed to read 23, but the three is missing, leaving behind the pale shadow of the number.

You hadn't expected the door to swing open, but you aren't taken by surprise either. There are few surprises in your line of work.

"Uh, hello," he says, blinking at you with big blue eyes still full of sleep. He is taller than you.

"Mr. Uzumaki?" you ask, your tone professional.

"Yup," he responds, scratching at blonde hair that sticks up at weird angles. "Do I know you?"

You shake your head. "This is about the money you've borrowed," you say. It is a well-used line. "You were late with the payment."

His eyes gather that familiar look of 'oh shit, yeah.'

"The boss does not appreciate tardiness," you say. You think about showing him your gun. "If you do not make your payments, there will be consequences." You do not.

"Yeah, I know," he replies. "I forgot. Here, let me get you the money."

You wait as he shuffles back inside, leaving his door ajar. The place reeks of stupidity. His face, which is full of it, comes back in sight. He is holding an envelope.

"See? I put the address on it and everything. I just forgot to mail it," he says.

"Don't make it a habit," you say.

He laughs, and this throws you off. "You're a real stiff, you know that? Most guys come here and leer at me, leaning in and just trying to be fuckin' intimidating or some shit, y'know?" he says. "You're weird." He leans back and takes you in. You don't know why this is so interesting to him, but you stand still. "Yup. You're definitely my favorite."

You pocket the envelope and walk away. You tuck him away in your mind, categorized under the label 'Stupid.' Most people do not like confrontation and they certainly don't let their guard down. You wonder if he will remember the money next time, but the thought flickers out of your mind as another takes its place. Work is calling.

* * *

Work does not involve getting to know people. It has no need for light conversation or listening to sob-stories. The only thing you need to know about Kiba Inuzuka is his name, address, and how many times he has skipped payments. You do not need to have a dog shoved in your face nor listen to a long spiel about vet school fees. None of this information gets filed into your head.

You tell him he has one more week to get the money in. It is his last warning.

As you walk away from his apartment, your phone lights up once more. Shadows have begun to darken and this will be your last job for the day. The phone gives you the message others might flinch at, but you just change your direction. When you arrive, the sun has given in to the night, slipping the city in darkness. The apartment complex looks deserted, as if it knows what is to come.

You walk up the stairs and towards the only door that has a window still lit up. When you knock, there is no response, but you knew this would happen. A kick weakens the lock, forcing the door to swing open and slam into the wall. You hear a muffled sob.

Knowing where to shoot, you aim and pull the trigger. A single shot, a single death. Though this has always been the case, you open the closet doors to make sure. Your job is not forgiving. Ino Yamanaka is crouched between boxes, a bullet in her throat.

Her eyes stare into yours, unseeing, and you know you are done for the day. You do not dawdle, you do not attempt to cover her. You simply walk outside, down the stairway, and head to the station for the last train. She will appear on the news the next morning, but you will only look for any details about yourself. There is a statement from a friend of hers, explaining her debt problems, and how he thinks it must have something to do with loan sharks or the like. This friend is smart, but you know it won't amount to anything. It never does.

* * *

Several months pass with the same in-and-out business, the same vague messages on your phone. Winter comes with a flurry of sweaters and festivities, cheer and alcohol-tainted breath. Work is always slow this time of year; employment was found in every corner, pressed into mailboxes, and advertised in every newspaper.

When your phone lights up in the cafe, you put down your coffee and slip out of your booth. You pay by the door and head out into the heavy onset of snow, knowing the trains might not be available when you were finished. The apartment is familiar and your mind picks out what you had remembered to file away.

You knock once and wait. You don't count anymore, not like when you had started this job. Now you just knew.

The door swings open and your eyes are attacked with a wall of neon orange. That wall turns out to be a sweater of enormous proportion.

"Oh hey! It's you!" he says, a grin slipping onto his face when it shouldn't have.

"You are—"

"I know," he says, cutting you off. "I got caught up with work and everything it just sorta slipped my mind, ya know?" He takes a step back, about to turn into the apartment, when he glances back at you. "Wanna come inside? It looks crazy cold out there."

You do not hesitate on entering the apartment and you immediately begin making notes to yourself in your head. Naruto Uzumaki owns a one-room apartment with one closet and no bath. A mattress is pushed in the corner, sheets rumpled like he had just gotten out of bed. His trash is overflowing, empty instant-ramen cups littered the counters.

"Sorry for the mess," Naruto says, scratching at his blonde hair; it is tidier than last time.

Open books are sprawled on the floor, showing off diagrams of plants and charts. A backpack sits unzipped at the foot of his mattress.

"You don't talk much, do you?" he asks and tilts his head at you. You are reminded of Kiba Inuzuka's dog.

"I am here for the payment," you say. You pause, but only for a moment. "Whether you have it or not." You stare at him, eyes and face betraying nothing – there is nothing to give away.

"Hm," he says and kicks aside a blanket. "I forgot where I put it. But seriously, man, you are the strangest one I've met. This other guy was here, like, what was it? Two weeks ago? Dunno, but he was all starin' at me with this look—" he tries to mimic the expression "—and tellin' me about how he doesn't really wanna do this, but he's got no choice." He laughs, here. "Like I believe that. But y'know, I think your silence and no-shit attitude is way more real than any of those guys. You're like, legit, or something." His fingers find a yellow envelope which he lifts in the air as a smile spreads across his face. "I found you! Oh, baby, you're my last two weeks of work. Can't believe I began to think I lost you."

You know about the men he talks about. They are the ones who feel the need to put on a show, to make something out of this job. After counting out the money, he hands you the envelope. A smile has curled on his face and his head tilts to the side; he is giving you an expression you cannot name. You pocket the money and turn to the door.

"You can only be late so many times," you remind him.

"I know."

* * *

The wall behind you is cracked in several places, grey cement showing through the peeling brown wallpaper. The grimy yellow light above illuminates your table enough to show the deeper scratches. A group of men are shouting their orders. A man with white sprinkled through his hair is sitting at the bar, his suit crumpled but the colors modest. A waitress elbows her way through the crowd, beefy arms supporting her loaded serving tray; you smell the noxious burning cheese as she passes.

A girl slips into your booth. Her silver dress rides up a little, but she doesn't bother fixing in. Her pink nails disappear in her matching clutch and she fishes out a compact mirror.

"Don't see you around here much," she says, dabbing at the corner of her mouth. Green eyes turn to you. "What's the occasion?"

You almost ignore her. "Delivery," you say. "For the boss."

Her eyes return to her mirror and she starts rubbing her lips together. Sakura has always sought your attention ever since you began work, though you cannot say why. Tonight, her hair glows pink under the dirty light bulb. She snaps the mirror closed and brings her attention back to you.

"Normally you get that Sai kid to do it," she says.

"He was busy," you reply.

She clicks her tongue and, even though you aren't looking at her, you can tell she's studying your face, trying to see what you aren't telling her. But there is nothing there and she stares out into the room. A red-head is sitting on the bar, taking sips from a shot glass. An argument starts up between men, but is quelled by the bartender.

"I can deliver it for you, if you want," she offers.

"What would you want in return?" you ask.

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "You know."

The rejection shows on your face before it leaves your mouth. "I'm not interested in anything you have to offer." You make a point to stare at the slim shadow between her breasts.

Her chest fills out further as she sighs. "Fine, I was on my way to see the boss anyways," she says and holds out a hand. "You need someone to witness the count-out anyways, right?"

You consider this for just a moment. It's not like you ever enjoy your chats with the boss. You hand her the package of envelopes you collected over the day, the one you always have in your coat pocket. Her nails flash metallic under the light as she flips through the bills with a speed she had earned with too many years of practice; you haven't mastered this skill yet.

"This one has too much," she says, pushing one of the envelopes to you.

"So?" you ask.

Sakura stares up at you, but you don't know what she is trying to say so she sighs. "You should bring it back. These people have a hard time making deadlines anyways," she says.

"It could be taken off their next payment," you say and begin calculating what that might be.

Her pink hair twirls around as she shakes her head. "The boss won't even count it – he'll just consider it like a tip. I know the boss better than anyone," she says and her eyes turn solid. Her expression sinks and she is looking at you again with another silent message. It escapes you, but you nod anyways.

"Just don't tell the boss about it," she tells you. "You won't get punished or anything – he'll just hold it against you."

You nod once again, knowing full well what that implied. Don't slip up, don't give anybody reason to doubt your competence. You pocket the money as she gathers the envelopes and slips them into the original package.

"I hope I see you around here again," she says, a smile curled up on her face.

You neither agree nor disagree and walk towards the exit. The old man is working his hand up the red-head's skirt. The bartender is arguing with a customer with a pressed-on smile. The waitress is sighing as she hands out orders from her tray. You walk outside, into the swirling snowflakes and the dark cold air.

* * *

The afternoon has turned grey and empty. Trees do not bend in the wind and people have hurried to their homes, as if they feel something you don't. You are staring out at the calm weather and stirring the sugar into your coffee. Work has ended early. The bored cashier had tried making small talk with you, but it is hard to keep a conversation going when you don't have much to say. He does remind you, however, that you need to drop by a store on your way home; your freezer has run out of dinners.

Once the creamer has made your coffee a milk chocolate brown, you walk outside. You feel as if the earth has turned off all of its sounds. The hum from people – their cars, machines, voices – has been amplified. You are more aware of yourself than you have been in months, but that is only because your footsteps sound like they are making more noise than you are used to.

When you remember the extra money in your pocket, you turn around. You do not need your phone to tell you where to go. When Naruto Uzumaki opens the door, surprise covers his face for only an instant.

"Hey! What brings you here?" he asks. It is not collection day. He steps aside to let you in and hesitation grips your foot, which you lifted automatically. You wonder about that.

"You gave too much money for the last payment," you tell him.

It is only when he sees the envelope in your hand does he understand. "Wait, what?" he says. "Why are you givin' it back to me?"

You stare at him, feeling a flicker of something in your chest. You're unsure, you realize. "Do you not want it?" you ask, your mind going back to last night's talk with Sakura. You should have just given the package to some other boy when you found out Sai had caught the flu. They wouldn't have questioned the extra amount.

"No, no, I'll take it," Naruto says and grabs at the money as if he were afraid you would change your mind. He looks at the envelope with a curious expression and then glances at you. "Wanna come inside? I'm just making dinner. You could stay or something. As thanks." He keeps glancing at you and fidgets with the seams on the envelope.

The hesitation you had felt before vanishes. "Yes, if you don't mind," you say and step inside his apartment. This would make one less dinner to purchase at the store.

He smiles again and hurries to the kitchen. "It's still a mess," he says, turning his head back at you. His tall frame blocks the light from the window. You walk to where you know his table is. "You can just sit there if you want," he says from the kitchen, "I'm almost done with it. You like spaghetti?"

You don't say anything. When was the last time you had spaghetti? You can't remember. "I don't have any preference," you decide to say. It seems like a safe answer.

When he snorts, you turn towards him, expecting to see why he is laughing. He carries a pot out to the table. "You're weird," he says and retrieves bowls and silverware. "You either like it or you don't. Right? I mean, I can understand if someone says that they don't mind it or they aren't crazy about it, but to have no opinion either way? Weird."

You remain silent. He is still shaking his head as he hands you a bowl.

"So did your boss or whoever's in charge just say, 'oh man! This idiot gave us too much money! Would you be ever so kind as to return it to him?'" Naruto asks, settling down with his own bowl.

"No," you reply.

He stares at you for a moment, amusement still shining in his eyes. "Okay, so I know it prolly didn't go just like I said, but then how _did_ it go?"

You put down your fork and stare at the pot. You pick your next words carefully. "I noticed the mistake before giving the amount to my boss," you say. A thin line is etched into the side of the pot. "And so I extracted the amount and returned it to you." Dark blotches dot the bottom.

He didn't say anything and you continued eating. Your fork is bent slightly, enough to make you twirl the noodles with a little more difficulty than you were expecting.

"So your boss didn't tell you to come here," he states.

"No."

"Hm."

Your silence overlaps with the clinks of dishes. You begin to wonder if he feels that the quiet is awkward or if he is enjoying it. You know that you are not what someone would wish for in a dinner guest. You are not his friend.

"What is the sauce you used?" you ask.

"Tomato," he replies.

Your eyes move back to the pot. "I like it."

"You like the sauce?"

"Yes. And spaghetti."

He smiles at his food and you continue eating.

* * *

When Kiba Inuzuka's mouth moves, you do not hear it. It's not that you have forgotten to listen – you just don't have anywhere to put useless information. Your eyes do not stare into his, he is looking anywhere but you. His hands are waving around his face and his dog is yipping from between his legs. A fluffy white thing with dark eyes. The dog is looking at you.

"You have one more time," you say, once the excuses are over. "One last chance. The next time you are late, my face will be the last you see." Now his eyes are on yours. "Don't be late."

He stutters an apology and an acceptance. You can see that he is thinking, but he isn't thinking hard enough. You know that you will be the one to pull the trigger. You look down at the dog before the door closes. It whines from behind the wood.

As you walk down the street, you remember that one of your suits has begun to show its age. A worn out appearance is never good for first impressions. The store you enter is one you haven't been to before. It is better not to have patterns or favorites. You don't want to be known.

The old man wants to fit you with a deep red color – he thinks it works well with your dark hair. You let him talk, give you his sales speech, and he goes on about how your complexion would look wonderful in green, too. He avoids the bright colors, you notice, though his hand hesitates on a burnt orange tie at one point. Pinstripes seem to be his favorite and once he is done, you go with what you already knew you would choose. At the register, you throw some socks into the purchase.

"Are you sure I can't interest you in something a little more colorful?" he asks, nodding toward his tables of ties, bows, and handkerchiefs. They are sorted according to color and fabric, width and pattern, creating a bright spot in the otherwise dark store.

"I'm sure."

He gives you a look you aren't sure about. "Makes one hell of an impression," he offers.

"No thank you."

His mustache twitches to the side along with his mouth and he rings up your purchase. "Just remember what I told you about the pinstripes," he says, zipping up the ensemble in a suit bag. "Very striking. Come back again."

You are fairly sure you won't. The walk to your apartment is slow and cold.

Dinner takes three minutes to warm up enough for you to stir, before you replace the plastic and put it back in the microwave for another two. You plug your phone into the charger as you wait and the screen lights up for a moment, empty. You set up a place for yourself at the table. You eat in a silence that is familiar to you, though you cannot figure out why this dinner feels different from the one you had with Naruto.

When the plastic tray is in the trash and utensils in the sink, you reload your gun and try to think for a moment before you put it on the nightstand. Nothing comes to you, much like your dreams, and you go to bed wondering why.

* * *

Weeks go by and the world is beginning to lighten; the snow that comes does not stick and people start talking. Green springs up at windows and in city planters. Purples and reds decorate signs and chocolate is everywhere, wrapped in tidy brown bows and edged in white papered lace. It is not a month for green, you think, but you know this city isn't as far north as others are and spring blooms early in the new year.

You feel a buzz in the air, you pass it every day, but you ignore it. The walk to the apartment is now thoroughly memorized, you hardly need to think at all.

The railing is wrapped in crude paper hearts strung together. The 23 has been fixed with a sharpie marker. More paper hearts are taped to the door, along with square snowflakes. You knock and wait, but the door does not swing open like you thought it would. You are about to knock again when he appears by your side, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

"Sorry," he breathed out. "Lost track of...time."

You stare at him for only a moment. His blonde hair is spiked up differently today and his backpack is falling off his shoulder. "You know why I am here," you say.

He nods and pats his jeans, looking for his keys. "Um, I've got some people—"

"Naruto!"

You turn to see that a group of people are trekking up the stairs, some of their faces are frowning.

"Why did you run off without us?" a young man asks. He has a light complexion and a smoky accent. His red hair is swept away from intense, flat eyes that looks like they are lined with eyeliner, though it could easily have been his lashes.

"I forgot about something," Naruto says, smiling up at you with an expression that made you think he wants you to disappear for a while. Or maybe he looks like he has been caught doing something everyone knew he shouldn't have.

A girl slips up beside the dark haired man. Her eyes are angled upward from Asian ancestry, though they were a bright, shimmery blue. "Naruto?" she asks, and her voice is soft. She glances at you and tucks her long dark hair behind her ear.

"Not a problem, not a problem," Naruto mutters. He has a hard time lining his key up with the keyhole. When the door clicks open, he gestures for everyone to get inside. Everyone except you.

The Asian girl glances at you as she walks in, muttering, "Is he the guy you talk about?"

"Just get inside, Hinata, I'll tell you in a sec," Naruto responds.

When the last person enters the apartment – a scowling young man with dark circles under his eyes – Andrew turns to you. You know this expression. It tells you the news you do not want to hear before it ever leaves his mouth.

"I don't have the money today."

You stare at him with indifference. "You know the consequences," you tell him. "Do not make this a habit."

"I know," he says and his mouth turns into a hard-pressed line. "I'll try. It's kinda hard lately and I knew you'd come, but school started too –" he groans and presses his fingers into his eyes. "I'm just really tired. I'm sorry. I'll get it to you next time."

You have heard excuses before. This wasn't any different. "Remember to get your next payment on time," you say. You turn to leave when he mutters something you aren't sure you were supposed to hear. You pause for a moment. Then you keep walking.

* * *

The next time you see Sakura is when you go to turn in half-empty envelopes to your boss. You were on the lookout for Sai or one of his friends when she attached herself to your arm and let out a sigh that smelled like Bailey's and mint. Now she is sitting next to you outside, where the night air still sends shivers down her arms. Spring is finished with its transformation. She pushes her hand out into the air and stares at the spaces between her nails.

"Why are you here with me?" she asks. Her bare legs swing out in front of her and the artificial light from the street shows off how cold she really is.

"You led me here," you reply.

Her shrug is sloppy. "Could have left me alone," she replied. "Why did you let me bring you here?"

You don't know how to respond. You don't have an answer for her.

She makes a noise and you can't tell if it's a laugh or a sob. "Well, I'm glad I bumped into you," she says. "I'm leaving this place."

Her words make you frown and an unusual feeling spreads in your gut.

"Yup, I'm leaving. I'm sick of this place," she says. "I know what you guys do and it makes me so – so – just so tired! Like a lot." Her eyelids have drooped over her green eyes. Black smears sparkle under the light with every turn of her head. "What did you think you would do when you grew up?"

You begin to think about her question, but she doesn't give you enough time.

"I wanted to be a nurse. Or a doctor," she says. "If I could be a doctor. If not, I was okay with being a nurse. Y'know? I just liked the idea of patching people up. Helping people. That's a good thing, right? I mean, what good people do."

You stare out into the blurry outlines of buildings and think about what it would be like to be a doctor. Or a nurse. It's not so different. Another job to do.

"Do you like kids?" she asks. This time, she turns to look at you as she waits for an answer.

"I have no preference," you say. The safe answer.

Her laugh reminds you of Naruto. "I love kids," she said. "I want 'em. And I can't do anything the way I am now. I need to pick myself up and, and leave. Find a good place. Yeah."

You don't know what to say to her. You know you need to find Sai and get the package to him. You know you need to get sleep for tomorrow's work. Nothing you know gives you a reason as to why you are sitting with a drunk girl in the middle of the night.

"Why are you even here?" she asks, and stands up. Her smile trembles and she takes your hand. "It was good talking with you. I'll see you around?"

You are still thinking about the first question, but you nod. She sighs again, though the smile has steadied.

After you find Sai and hand him the money, you walk back to your empty apartment and think about her words. You do not see Sakura again.

* * *

The sun heats up your suit like it's made of bricks. Your tie is tight around your neck, pressing into your sweaty skin. Your hands are the only parts of you that are cool, wrapped around the iced coffee that is already sending streams of water between your fingers. Your shoes feel like they are too small and you wonder why you had worn socks.

People in the streets are not as uncomfortable as you are. They are smiling in their tank tops and shorts, eating their way through ice cream cones and watermelon. There are more younger people on the roads these days. School has ended. Everybody is rejoicing.

You are reluctant to throw your empty cup away; it hasn't warmed up completely. Your phone vibrates and you stop to pull out a handkerchief to wipe at your sticky fingers. Work has left you a message that makes your chest tighten. You take a deep breath and tuck your phone back into your pocket. Your legs know the way.

Children race past you as you walk into the parking lot. It is too hot to stay indoors with no air conditioning. The apartment complex has been abandoned. Your footsteps are slow as you walk up the crumbling cement stairs. The door still has the remains of cut-out construction paper taped to it. Your knuckles are rapping against the wood before you even realize it.

There are a few moments of silence before the door opens, slow. You see Naruto staring out at you, squinting against the bright light surrounding you. Your mouth explains the situation and his eyes darken. He is stupid and invites you inside.

"So, uh, I knew you would come," he says. You can see that his shoulders are tense.

You don't say anything but not because you don't have anything to say. There are plenty of lines you have used over the years. None of them seem to fit the occasion.

"So I guess there isn't a way out of this," he says and stares down at you with round blue eyes. They look as if they are trying to say something he cannot.

You neither confirm nor deny his statement. His eyes crinkle into a smile and he goes to sit on the sofa. You don't know what to think about his submissive behavior. This isn't something you are used to seeing. Then you notice that his eyes are brighter than before. Tears are working their way down his face.

"Please, could you give me one more day? I get paid soon, I really do," he said. "And I wasn't late with the other payments. Not _really_."

You are reminded of what you heard him say earlier in the year. _But then you wouldn't come_. It was something he had said to himself and it strikes you as odd that it managed to slip its way into your mind. You do not file away useless information.

"I just – I wanted – "

Your gun cuts him off, the shot barely makes a noise as it lands in his forehead. It was not close enough to shatter his skull. You frown at the headshot you don't normally make. You holster your gun and look around. Ramen cups still litter his countertop. His bed is still unmade. You take one of the blankets and throw it over his body.

You walk outside. Nobody is around to see you leave. Your gun was silenced. Nobody heard it. You wonder why you bothered with the blanket and what Sakura meant by her question. You keep walking. Naruto Uzumaki is dead and you would not have to make your way back to his apartment ever again. Your work does not need you to feel sympathetic. Your mind does not give you answers. You only know that you pulled the blanket over his body because you don't care and know you should.

* * *

Merry Christmas! Sorry this isn't very warm and fuzzy :/

Jen


End file.
